Will to Power
by nursehelena
Summary: Damien Cornickelson never could stand being had. Damien/Melmord


Even with his office door closed, Damien could still hear keyboards clacking, phones ringing, and papers rustling as his father's lesser employees went about their usual morning. Damien did the same; half-drank coffee left a brown ring on his desk and pens scattered elsewhere on the surface as he perused an endless pile of papers. His eyes glazed as he ran over the figures, occasionally double-checking something with a calculator. Times like this, he wished he hadn't dropped out of college. Sure, he really didn't have any mind for arranging or recording music, and this sort of menial labour readied him to one day take the CEO position of Crystal Mountain Records, but at least whatever he wound up doing instead would've been different than _this_.

He automatically reached for his phone when it rang. "Damien here."

"Guess who."

Damien exhaled through his nose. "Melmord."

Nil reaction to speak that name and hear his voice demonstrated for Damien how time posed its inevitable division. Their carefree days of college—parties, drugs, head games—were long in the past. Damien's propensity to put up with Melmord's bullshit slipped away with it.

"How ya been?"

"Just skip it. What did you want?"

"Got some interesting news for you." Melmord's voice lilted, indicative of his usual smirk. "Seems I've been hired by your favourite band to help them understand their financial situation."

"My—?" Damien groaned. "And what, you thought you'd call to gloat?"

"No, I figured you'd love to hear about what kind of fucking morons they are."

The temptation to spurn the other man in lieu of his work dissipated. Damien could appreciate this sort of phone call in the middle of his day. "You know I'm not a very forgiving person, if you have some ulterior motive."

"Come on, don't hold a grudge. I was just hanging out with Nathan Explosion and I thought about you."

"He punched me in the fucking face."

"And I got dirt on him."

Damien pressed his lips together. Goddamn it, Melmord. No one spare someone with similar mind could waltz so easily back into his life. Maybe Melmord manipulated him. Did it matter? All Damien needed to do was hear him out, appreciate the gossip, and then shoo Melmord along so that he could get back to work. "Like what?"

"Seriously, give him some heroin and he'll tell you anything." Melmord chuckled. "Like this one time, he. . ."

The initial determination not to give Melmord the satisfaction of making his day wilted further with each story relayed. Damien went from slouching over his desk with an unimpressed frown to leaning back in his chair and distracting the workers nearest his office with raucous laughter. "You're not just yanking my chain, are you? This is all true?"

"Hand to God." Melmord paused. "Do you want me to keep you updated?"

There spelled the end of Damien's carelessness. They may have been close friends once, but Damien knew better than anyone else how to spot a cunning bastard. When faced with a common enemy, his and Melmord's collective influence met no bounds. On their lonesome though, as their too-similar personalities turned inward. . .

"Why not," he decided. "Keeps me entertained."

"Figured you'd say that." Melmord chuckled again. "I'll talk to you soon."

* * *

Rain blurred Damien's vision on a particularly dank drive home. At work he tended to roll his eyes whenever he heard the other office workers exchange TGIFs, but inwardly he agreed. This week, thanks to Melmord, had become riddled with anxiety.

As much as Damien enjoyed creating disorder, he didn't like it in his own life. Therefore, he tended not to bother with people. Whether genial, mean-spirited, witty, or interesting, he simply didn't like them. That worried him in his youth, but he'd since accepted himself. Now, he held down a respectable job, enjoyed his independence, and refrained from engaging in anything out of the ordinary. From perspective of his youth, he finally lived the life he perpetuated then for the sake of his family name. While paying some international student's way through college in exchange for getting his homework done, Damien was free to stay out all night. His inability to grow attached to people resulted in a blur of faces, shifting every time he either grew bored of his crowd or took something too far for them to stomach. Out of that indistinct mass, Melmord remained constant.

Damien couldn't even remember when they first wound up in each other's company. The farthest back his memory went was a warm night, mid-spring, when he sat stoned against the couch in some guy's apartment. His legs sprawled out haphazardly before him. Normally he could handle pot in any quantity, but something that time overwhelmed. As a result, it took a nudge to the shoulder before he acknowledged whoever kept speaking his name.

"Pass it on, dude." A deep voice cleared through the discord. "You're hogging it."

Focus. That's what Melmord made Damien do, starting right then. The guy expressed cool control in something as simple as the way he lifted the joint to his lips, eyebrows losing the fight with gravity as the drug circulated in his system. Melmord's dark hair was slicked back with its own grease, and he hadn't shaved his face for at least a week. He was the absolute opposite Damien expected himself intrigued by, physically at least. When it came to the allure of others, power more than anything made him take notice. And Melmord, justified or not, exuded that completely. Once their underground power structure collapsed, though, Damien's interest depleted. Outside that frame of reference, he didn't know who he looked at across the dinner table anymore. He didn't care as much as he thought he might when they went their separate ways and Melmord fell off his radar.

Perhaps that explained his allowance toward Melmord contacting him again. Usually never more than one phone call was placed between the periods of silence he imposed. Whether or not Damien hated Dethklok, being involved with them meant power. It brought he and Melmord back to the same playing field.

The red light on his answering machine blinked away in Damien's peripheral vision while he attempted to decide which Thai restaurant to order in from. Not willing to give Melmord priority, Damien called in dinner, poured himself a couple fingers of whisky, and only then leisurely made his way over to the counter. He lifted his drink to his mouth while he listened. "_This would be a lot easier if you'd give me your cell number, you know. Anyway, give me a call back._"

That too could wait. Damien dressed down from his suit in the bedroom, buzzed in the delivery man, and left him a hefty tip for his speed. Now comfortable, with all his basic needs met, Damien felt ready to reverse-dial the number on his call display.

"Home late?"

"No." Damien moved his dinner from the take-out box to a real plate. "Busy week?"

"Not really." Melmord paused. "Actually. . ."

Even something as simple as that fed Damien a sense of victory. "How's that whole racket going?"

"I have this idea I wanted to run by you."

"Shoot."

"I don't know how well you know the band, but they're basically a bunch of children. Especially now, with two managers. I can't decide if they're more like impressionable kids on the playground, or kids of divorce that naturally gravitate toward the nicer parent."

"A bit of both, perhaps. What's your point?"

"I've become both the cool kid on the playground _and_ the favoured parent."

"So?"

"So I think that if I suggested they fire their manager, they'd go for it without much of a second thought."

Damien chuckled, genuinely amused. "You think it'd be that easy, do you?"

"The hard part was getting them to hire me. They're so deep in their decadence that they don't understand responsibility versus punishment anymore. They genuinely believe that Offdensen is withholding their money and feeding them double-talk about their business. We've never dealt with someone _this_ stupid, Damien."

"'We'? Who says _I'm_ involving myself in this?"

"Think about it a little harder, what it would mean for _me_ to manage Dethklok, and _you_ to run Crystal Mountain. It isn't the band that's running the shots. You know how it works: it's who's pulling the strings and in control of the purse."

Damien set his chopsticks down. "I'm listening."

"Your dad's too lenient. He's basically funding their laziness, right now. Why don't you talk to him? See what you can do from your end."

"I'm seeing him tomorrow, at some bullshit charity event."

"How's his health, anyway?"

"Not bad. Could be better, could be worse. Still the same waiting game." Damien paused. "I know what you're thinking: if this little scheme of yours works, it's not all going to happen at one time. Not that it'll really have to."

"You're not completely sold on it, huh?"

"It just seems too _easy_."

"It's not every day an opportunity arises like this. Think about how much we had to fight back in the eighties to get anywhere. And never on a scale like this."

"That's what makes this seem too good to be true."

"I don't care if you're just shitting all over this because I thought of it before _you_. You just wait. Get to the fundraiser, make nice, and see where Daddy's head's at with his milking cow."

* * *

". . .I'm just saying, I've been looking at the numbers, and they're not exactly what I would call acceptable."

"Do we really need to talk about this _now?_"

The general murmur beyond the table Damien shared with his father and a couple other hefty contributors drove him absolutely mad if he paid even the slightest attention to it. As background noise he sat in the midst of a gigantic beehive, and should he concentrate on any individual their vapid conversation would tighten the pit of annoyance in his stomach. Pile on top of that clinking silverware and glaring jewelry, and he'd be fit to commit murder.

"I rarely get to see you. You're too busy at work."

"That's what meetings are for." Despite his disinclination to address the subject, Roy Cornickelson turned more toward his son. "Is there a reason you're bringing it up outside of the company?"

"You've always been too lenient with Dethklok, Dad. You know that."

"That's not entirely true. They're a special case; without them, Crystal Mountain wouldn't survive."

"It'd do just fine. What'd be worse is if they drove you into the ground and got snatched up by another label." Damien dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "They need to release a new record. Soon. You're on good terms with Charles, why don't you add a little pressure? He always thrives under it."

"True. The band, as well." Roy nodded. "Very well. I see your point. But I'm not worrying about it until Monday. Would you want a glass of Le Pin if I bought a bottle?"

"Hold off, I'm going to run to the restroom."

Damien didn't get that far before pulling out his phone. A couple teenagers hid away from their parents in one of the nooks between the kitchen and bathrooms, clearing out with a single glare. Shadows aided to further obscure Damien. "He agreed."

"Good. How's the party?"

"Like any _other_ party. Terrible," Damien grumbled. How could _anyone_ enjoy these things? "Almost makes me wish you still lived out here."

"It must be one hell of a snorefest if you're admitting that."

"_Almost_," Damien elaborated.

"Well. . .maybe someday. You never know, right?"

Not that it would matter; escaping these functions with an associate might've been excusable in his twenties, but there would be too many questions if he skipped out in order to seek someone else's company. Damien squirmed enough if his father inquired upon any special woman being present in his life. He didn't need to be spotted with a man, for the headache it'd cause. The time he might've done something so stupid was in the past, along with a flask of cheap Tennessee whisky, lying in a ditch, and an awkward bolt after zipping his pants back up.

"If you're going to be managing Dethklok, then it's not exactly an option," Damien steered the conversation back into cold territory. "You'll need to stay at Mordhaus with them."

"Depends on what we decide to do with them. I've never seen someone spend money so quickly and in such copious amounts. They could drive themselves into the ground in little to no time at all."

"So then why exactly do you need me as the CEO of Crystal Mountain?" Damien's eyes narrowed. "Oh. . .I see. You don't, really. But you _did_ need me to nudge my father into putting more stress on the situation."

Melmord chuckled. "You honestly believe I'd do something so obvious?"

"It would work, wouldn't it?"

"Hardly, if I want bringing these guys down to be worth anything at all."

"And what exactly does _that_ mean?"

"You know as well as I do that we work better together, rather than against each other."

"So?"

"So what would the point be to do all this if I had no one to share it with?"

"Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere. If you want my help, you need to start talking in _my_ terms, and completely transparently."

"Yeah, yeah. By the way."

Damien grunted to indicate he still listened.

"Thanks for giving me your phone number."

* * *

Whether or not Melmord could actually be trusted, it was too late for Damien to do anything about it. He tried his father Monday morning to see where he stood, only to find out he'd already spoken to Dethklok's possibly-outgoing manager. While Damien waited to find out how exactly this might affect him, he stewed over how he might turn this to his own advantage.

Not taking into consideration all Melmord hinted toward on the phone, the man could very well just replace his nice-guy attitude with the band in exchange for Offdensen's clinical approach. A lot of power and infamy came with the position. If Melmord let it slip through his fingers, then why rise to it in the first place? He might manage to get away with a hefty sum of money, but when did money really ever concern _either_ of them? They'd witnessed first-hand too many times the wide-eyed expression on some rich old broad's face as she bought their silence. No, money did nothing, in the grand scheme of things. _Wealth_, on the other hand, and not invested into material items, but into _people. . ._

His cell phone vibrated in the top drawer of his desk. Usually the only texts he received came from his service provider, but ever since Melmord acquired his number Damien checked every single one. This time proved not to be a false positive. _'I'll call you later tonight. Potential big news.'_

_Get your head out of your ass,_ Damien thought as he dropped his phone back into its resting place. Melmord only hinted at fruition of his plan because he knew it'd drive Damien crazy and turn his thoughts obsessive. And damn it, it worked. The distraction pushed the majority of his paperwork for completion the next day, and the meeting Damien attended in the mid-afternoon may as well have been cancelled for all he took from it.

What exactly did it _mean_ for Melmord to get this? What would happen to Crystal Mountain, and Damien in turn? If Melmord _did_ allow the band to self-destruct, then the record label would become irrelevant. God _damn _it. What all this meant was that Melmord paid a little _too_ close attention to Damien during their stint together in college, that he chose to play the sidekick because of the vantage point. It meant he could take this on himself. He didn't need help.

It meant that Damien had been completely fucked up the ass.

Maybe Melmord would stay true to his word about sharing, but Damien didn't bank on it. If their positions were flipped, Damien wouldn't give Melmord one more thought. They never got along when seated together at the top anyway. . .why would Melmord ever assume differently, in _this_ situation?

Forgetting dinner, Damien went straight to his liquor cabinet upon returning home. Too many possibilities existed. If he stood any chance against reviewing every potential outcome, he needed something to slow his brain down. An abundance of alcohol worked; the sky slowly turned dark beyond his drapes, neighbours passed less frequently by his door, and the knots in his stomach lessened. He stared at the landline, cell tightly clasped in his hand. However Melmord chose to contact him, he was ready.

His eyelids grew heavy. Time? 11:30 already? Fucking Melmord. He probably anticipated this completely, Damien getting all worked up for something that wouldn't happen. Did Melmord expect him to wait up late, too? If anything pissed Damien off, it was that. He'd sworn a long time ago that he'd never wait up for that piece of shit again.


End file.
